


The Searing in Our Throat of That Fated Veuve Cliquot

by scottsporageoats



Category: The Most Dangerous Game - Richard Connell
Genre: Alcohol, Intoxication, Love/Hate, M/M, Metaphors, My First Fanfic, Poetry, Prose Poem, Short & Sweet, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-08-26 00:05:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16670971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scottsporageoats/pseuds/scottsporageoats
Summary: “You enamour me, Sanger.”Perturbed, Rainsford sighed for he felt a throb so bitter of his lovelorn heart, dewy and rubescent his skin was, enlaced in a tangle with the gentleman he loathe the most; General Zaroff...





	The Searing in Our Throat of That Fated Veuve Cliquot

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Morning After](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8591071) by [sailboatsupernova](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sailboatsupernova/pseuds/sailboatsupernova). 



He was not entirely sure what brought him out of his reverie; was it the rhythmic swashing of billows across the desolate swathes of strand, the frothy murmur of sea filling his ears; the continuous wafting of breeze, the whistle it makes as it passes through a hollow bark or whispering secrets of yore to knots of grass and bosk as it flutters by, the whisk of a hum reverberating into the yonder afar; or that it was at the fall of even his body sank into gossamer ‘neath the night’s gander of a canopy grander, what he donned earlier strewn about in hasty constellations, glasses of liquor precariously stood, its venom potent and its slither imbruing the cashmere blanketing the bedchamber floor.

His mind a wayfarer, its path clouded by the brume of intoxication; his morality a fallen warrior, slain by his sick desire, logical thought a forgotten world, a looming dearth of a single voice.

“You enamour me, Sanger.”

Perturbed, Rainsford sighed for he felt a throb so bitter of his lovelorn heart, dewy and rubescent his skin was, enlaced in a tangle with the gentleman he loathe the most; General Zaroff felt the palpitations of Rainsford’s trembling body in his hands. He licked his lips of scarlet – “Delectable” musing to himself, a wolfish leer on his face lay, besotted, on the doe-eyed Sanger Rainsford he was to prey.

“I ought to play you like an instrument, my dear –”

Rainsford instinctively clasped the sheets with his hands, his knuckles frostbitten red, for he felt a swift brush of general’s artful fingers, lithe and nimble on his melanin-stippled back, ghosting over his dainty spine; taking in every uprise of bone on the elegant curvature of the harp-like arch.

His abdomen peppered with kisses dangerously low, Rainsford could not help those mellifluous tones which escaped him so; came a whimper so delightful to endear, for there was on his inner-thigh the caress of Zaroff’s deceitful simper.

**. . .**

Rainsford’s eyes aquiver, drained of vigour with those cumbersome lids which seemed to dither, his sight a blur, down the precipice of consciousness below.  

 

 


End file.
